


Divine & Infernal

by BeautifulFiction



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:40:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26318842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifulFiction/pseuds/BeautifulFiction
Summary: A growing collection of shorts written for prompts from the Good Omens fandom.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 42
Kudos: 86





	1. Books - For Karla

Aziraphale ran his fingers along the shelves, idly admiring the spines of the books that adorned it. Nothing so crass as dust settled on the smooth wood, and the sunlight would not dare fade the leather bindings. Not in his shop.

Oh, there were certain necessities, of course. Motes sparkled in the sunbeams that speared through the grimy windows, and the heavy scent of old paper embellished every breath. Humans had expectations, including the precise nature of old bookshops. This was no Waterstones, with its mass-market paperbacks and long-suffering staff. His would-be patrons did not come here looking for coffee and comfortable armchairs. They came here for rare and impossible volumes.

Of course, they invariably left empty-handed. As if Aziraphale would trust just anyone with one of his books! Who knew what could happen to it? Crumbs! Greasy fingers! Split spines and dog-eared corners! Heavens, no!

He smoothed a hand down his waistcoat. A very small part of him felt somewhat guilty for his, well, his covetousness. Practically a sin, but he was a guardian after all, and all this knowledge, this creation contained within the pages of mankind’s endless library – it had started back there, hadn’t it? In the garden? 

Eve ate the fruit and understood good and evil. Now, her distant descendants produced reams of stories and philosophies, studies and prophecies. That first spark of knowledge had led to all this wonder.

All, he thought with a smile, thanks to a certain wily old serpent.


	2. Suspicion - For Arieke

Oh, there had always been suspicions – rumours whispered over the aeons – but never had any of them thought the gossip would be proven so terrifyingly correct.

Crowley: lean and sharp, crafty and cunning. Not one to be underestimated, as many demons had found out. No one had ever been quite certain where he fit into Hell’s hierarchy. Oh, he took orders well enough, when it suited his own ends, but there was always a sense, even to those at the very top (or bottom, so to speak) of Satan’s demesne, that he was humouring them.

That if Crowley chose to do so, he could bring all Hell to its knees – could crush it underfoot if the fancy took him.

Then: a bathtub, a punishment turned into a performance. Humiliating. Miraculous. Impossible. 

Not even holy water could unmake him, and Hell fell into turmoil as he walked free.

Heaven could not boast to be in a better state. Up there, certain infallible truths held sway. Everyone had their place. God’s word was law (as Metatron conveyed it) and Hellfire would be the undoing of anything divine.

It should have been a simple matter. Aziraphale had gone against the Host and would be punished. There was no room for dissent or hesitation or words like “Ummmm, I don’t think…”. A trial was unnecessary. Heaven could not be wrong in its judgement, and so Aziraphale was condemned.

Did he look harder than he had once? The angels wondered. His eyes sharper, his jaw tense? Did he look less like the benign Principality that had once guarded the eastern gate? Was there a promise of retribution in the tilt of his head and the twitch of his lips?

No matter. He would burn.

Except he did not. He stood amid chaos and fury, unmoved. His hair did not singe, his clothes did not crumble, his form did not vanish into ether and memory. He said not a word, but raised an eyebrow: challenging, arrogant, as if daring them to comment. As if asking “Now what will you do?” 

Defiant in the face of all Heaven’s authority.

But what power did they have over an angel who could not be unmade?

The flames died to nothing; their passage marked only by the swirl of soot that painted its accusations over the marble floor. Embarrassed silence pressed in from all sides. No one, it seemed, knew what to do next. 

Except Aziraphale. He did not gloat, nor sneer, nor lord it over them. He did not need to. Not after that stunt where he had parted his lips and flames erupted from his mouth. Instead, he offered nothing but a nod before showing himself out.

Over time, after the furore calmed in both realms, a quiet – very human – consensus was reached. They would ignore the problem of the demon and the angel who could not be destroyed and hope that, over time, it went away by itself.

This suited Crowley and Aziraphale perfectly.

They had their freedom, and they had each other. They needed nothing more.


	3. Dance - For The-Reading-Lemon

The problem with dancing was that you really needed a body. One you were born with. One that occupied the normal number of dimensions without a concerted effort and did not try to be infinitely vast and infinitesimally tiny all at once.

Controlling a corporeal form, even one designed by an angel’s own sense of identity crammed into something human-shaped, took a huge amount of concentration. That was why they all looked so stiff: visitors from Heaven and Hell alike. 

They were trying to control too much at once, getting their celestial hands dirty in the whole business of synapse and reflex, movement and memory. Oh, they looked the part, but even Gabriel trotted about with a gleam of panic in his eyes, as if he was always one step away from falling flat on his face.

Crowley smirked at the idea, sprawling on the overstuffed sofa in Aziraphale’s shop. A glass of wine, effortlessly maintained at the perfect temperature, chilled his fingertips. He watched his angel over the rim, admiring the way he drifted between the shelves, slotting books home and pulling others free, never once fumbling or tripping over his own feet.

Setting down his drink, Crowley reached for a nearby stack. There was a reason Aziraphale did not hire staff for this place. He did not trust anyone enough to touch the volumes he held most dear. Crowley was the exception. Besides, he’d been here long enough to know where everything went.

This – the tending of his bookshop – was a dance of Aziraphale’s design, and with very little fanfare, Crowley joined him in its steps.


	4. Gift - For Aelish Luna

What to get a six-thousand-year-old demon as a gift? Not, in all honesty, a question any human ever had to contemplate. Their lives were blessedly short and their resources few. They bought each other trinkets and preened over shiny things like excited magpies.

Crowley, if he fancied something sparkly, could miracle himself up anything in the world. Anything at all. It took the notion of “the person who has everything” to a whole new level.

There was always a houseplant, but Aziraphale felt sorry for the poor things. Crowley was far from kind to them, and he always felt as if he were choosing a victim when selecting one from the shop shelf. 

Besides, it seemed a paltry offering of gratitude. Crowley had helped him stop the apocalypse – had saved the world and Aziraphale’s very existence. Oh, he played his part, but he could never have done it on his own. If not for Crowley, he would probably still be toeing Heaven’s line, flaming sword in hand. 

‘Are you going to eat that?’

Aziraphale blinked, looking down at the delectable gateaux on his plate. His fork hovered over it like a guillotine blade, but he’d not taken so much as a bite.

Yet it was not the thick, heady scent of the chocolate that drove him to rectify that situation. Rather, it was Crowley, looking at him over the top of those dark glasses, his head tilted and his gaze softer than Aziraphale had ever seen it: fond and concerned and… well… loving.

He swallowed, taking a hasty morsel of (exquisite) cake, as his heart jumped beneath his ribs. It would be a sin to pretend he had never sensed Crowley’s love before. In truth, it had been a constant for more years than he cared to count. 

Now, for the first time, he realised he didn’t have to ignore it. For centuries, he had made excuses, just as he ignored his own fondness. There was too much in their way: Heaven and Hell and everything in between.

Or there had been, until a few days ago.

Aziraphale smiled, polishing off his cake with renewed gusto before blotting his lips with his napkin. He met Crowley’s gaze, and oh, how well they knew each other. Crowley could read something in his expression, some shift in the status quo, perhaps, because he straightened in his chair, no longer lounging but alert: practically on the edge of his seat.

‘Angel?’

‘Crowley, my dear. It occurs to me it might be best for both of us to lie low for a while. London’s a bit too…’ He waved a hand, searching for the right words. ‘- centre stage.’

He watched the flicker of emotion cross that narrow face: doubt and need and so much hope.

‘Did you have somewhere in mind, or…?’ A shrug of angular shoulders – a shimmy of confusion. Last time it had been Crowley offering to take them away, out beyond the stars and far from the apocalypse-to-be here on earth. Back then, it had felt too wrong, too shameful, like they were still breaking the rules.

Now, Aziraphale rather like to think they were the ones making the rules. So far, God had not objected, and she’d had plenty of opportunities over the aeons.

He swallowed tightly, his fingers curling into a brief fist beside his empty plate. His courage wavered but he would not let it fail him. They had been through too much. He could not let there be any room for doubt or misunderstanding. Not anymore.

Reaching out, he placed his hand lightly – oh so lightly – over Crowley’s. ‘I don’t think it matters where we go, as long as we’re together.’

And for the first time, Aziraphale truly let his guard down, allowing all the love/respect/admiration he harboured for Crowley loose.

A hiss of indrawn breath – wide, amber eyes… Angels and demons were not so different, after all. Made from the same divine cloth. Though Crowley may not be as attuned to love, he could still sense it: a gentle, unstoppable force that swept them both off their feet.

A gift of honesty.

A future together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Want to give me a prompt?** [ Click here to find out how.](http://the-pen-pot.tumblr.com/SupportMe)
> 
>  **Fanfic** : [BBC Sherlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifulFiction/pseuds/BeautifulFiction/works?fandom_id=133185) | [Fullmetal Alchemist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifulFiction/works?fandom_id=824701) | [The Hobbit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifulFiction/works?fandom_id=873394)  
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	5. Gold: For AnotherWellKeptSecret

Others looked skywards, to the nebulous blue of heaven’s vault, and their eyes captured the shades held there: cerulean and mazarine, slate and periwinkle. 

Crowley looked deeper, further, out into the place where God’s power remained, but Her influence grew thin. She tried to keep him busy, to stop him from wandering too far along the curious corridors of his own mind, and so She gave him the vast sprawl of space to be his playground.

He looked into the golden heart of suns. He stared at the glowing cores of nebulae as their vaporous hues unravelled from his fingertips. He gazed into the gleaming, burning, raging hubs of the galaxies as they began their spin and swirl. He painted the darkness with constellations, and his eyes mirrored their fiery splendour.

Even when he fell, far from that celestial bower and heaven’s cradle, his eyes remained as aureate as ever. Up there, they had been different. Here? Well. He was just one monster among many. 

He hid them, then. It was for the best. Others looked into his eyes and saw the serpent. 

Only Aziraphale met his gaze and saw the stars.


	6. Pilgrim: For AelishLuna

Patisseries were a dime-a-dozen. They dotted the streets of London like pimples, tempting him in with the scent of fresh baked pastry and delicate dustings of sugar. However, they were common, everyday occurrences. Their treats were tasty, but they were not divine. That was why, at least once a year, Aziraphale conducted his pilgrimage.

In a small town in southern France stood the pinnacle of pastry excellence. It was a humble building: a charming bistro tucked down a cobbled street. Yet if he did not know better, he would swear the chef was an angel.

Lisette smiled, her dark eyes twinkling as she placed a plate of his favourites before him. She was but the latest generation in a line of women who created miracles from dough and sugar, preserves and cream. They deserved sainthood, in Aziraphale’s not-so-humble opinion, and one of these days, he intended to ensure they got it. Humans gave away sainthood willy-nilly. A few well-placed miracles was all it took. The only reason he had not yet made it happen was, quite frankly, he did not want to share this delicious secret with the world.

‘Going to eat that?’ Crowley asked, the teasing in his voice evident. He sat nursing a very small cup of very strong coffee, watching Aziraphale attempt to savour the offerings before him. It was a losing battle. As it was, he had been forced to order seconds as the first helping had practically vanished right off his plate. He had eaten it, he knew, but he was left, as always, wanting more.

‘Really, you say that every time we’re here. It stopped being funny a very long time ago.’ Aziraphale sighed mournfully as his plate once again gleamed back at him, forlorn and empty. A moment later, Crowley’s power brushed over his face, soft as a kiss. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Cleaning you up. You got a bit enthusiastic. Jam on your nose.’ He sat back and crossed his legs, his sunglasses gleaming as he bathed in the warm light that filled the street. A lazy flick of his hand, power tugged up from Below, and Aziraphale’s plate brimmed once more. Not just with Lisette’s delicacies, but with the secret recipes that had followed her Great-Great Grandmother to the grave. 

‘My treat,’ he murmured, putting his hands behind his head, and, well, who was Aziraphale to argue with such generosity?


End file.
